We Care Not
by poeticmaiden
Summary: Watson, horribly embarrassed for various reasons, disappears, sending an unlikely pair in search of him. Entry for Challenge 007 on Watson's Woes.
1. Part 1

**This my entry for Watson's Woes Challenge 007, and since it placed first I thought I'd share it with you all. I'm splitting it into four parts because of its length (3,700 words), but it is complete so do not worry about me leaving it unfinished. The prompt for this challenge was that Watson had to be embarrassed in some way. Since I hate embarrassing characters, I tried to find a more serious and meaningful way to do it. Enjoy!**

**Rating/Warnings: Rated T for inferences of scandal and talk of suicide. **

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He had failed. Failed miserably. He knew that well enough.

He didn't need Sherlock Holmes to tell it to him all again when he got back to Baker Street.

Holmes immediately deduced where he had been -- deduced that he had gone off to attempt to work things out on his own, and had made a horrible muddle of it. But could the detective bother to read the look on his face and see that he was already well aware of that fact? No.

"Watson, you have destroyed everything!" he shouted, throwing the 'M' volume of his index across the room, dangerously close to where the doctor stood in the doorway. "All my careful planning! Can't you see that it can't be repaired now? You've ruined the case, and because of you a violent criminal will escape justice -- possibly permanently!"

"Holmes..." Watson mumbled.

"Leave the thinking to me, in the future!" Holmes continued, as if he hadn't heard. "Since you obviously are incapable of it! Never, never, never do this again, you fool!"

Watson felt the burning in his cheeks, not so much from the anger he would normally have expected himself to feel, but at the utter shame of it. He had blundered, certainly. He had been wrong.

Without looking at Holmes, he walked slowly over to his desk, removed his revolver, and laid it in the desk drawer. Removing his hat for a moment, he examined it, and then placed it on his head again.

"I'm going to go visit Mary."

"Good!" Holmes snapped. "I have no desire to see you in Baker Street this evening!"

But Watson was already through the door, leaving the barb to plant itself in his retreating back.


	2. Part 2

He knocked on Mary's door, even though he would have liked nothing better than to hide from the rest of the world in the safety of his room. Just to have another human being see his face was enough to remind him of his failure -- not like he had to be reminded.

But he had promised her he would come, and come he did, trying hard to put on a smiling face just for her sake.

It was to his surprise, when the maid showed him into the sitting room, to find that his fiancée was not alone. Another woman, perhaps five years older than she was, was sitting across from her, telling a loud and rather boisterous story while Mary sat listening quietly.

The other woman didn't seem to notice he had entered, so caught up was she in her tale, and so it was a few minutes before Mary had the liberty to rise and greet him.

"John!" she cried, smiling at him gratefully and she walked toward him with her hand extended. He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and returned the smile, hoping she did not see the sadness lurking in his eyes.

Mary turned back to the other woman, who had raised her eyebrow at the scene. "Matilda, this is my fiancé, Dr. John Watson, that I was telling you about. John, this is a friend of mine, Miss Matilda Plumber."

"Yes, a pleasure to meet you, I'm sure," the lady said, rising more out of obligation that out of a genuine desire to be courteous. "I have known dear Mary for only a month, but we are already becoming fast friends, aren't we darling?"

Mary nodded politely but couldn't seem to manage a verbal answer to the affirmative.

"Mary has talked so much about you," Matilda went on, regaining a bit of her enthusiasm as she spoke. "Although I wonder, myself, if you are not a scoundrel, Mr. Watson."

Watson was too taken aback by her words to bother about the misapplied title. "A scoundrel? What do you mean?"

"Ah!" Miss Matilda said, a gleam coming into her eye. She leaned back lazily on the couch with the air of a queen and eyed him, much as a cat does a mouse. "I see I have you there! I have read your stories, Mr. Watson -- oh yes, I have indeed!" She gave a haughty laugh.

Watson hastily searched his mind, trying to recall what on earth would leave such an unfavorable impression in this lady's mind. He could think of nothing.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage over me, Miss Plumber," he said. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, how quaint, to pretend you don't know your own sin!" Miss Matilda exclaimed. "Really, Mary, I trusted you were smarter than to be deceived by the likes of him!"

"Deceived? Matilda, what on earth are you talking about? John is the most honorable of men, I can assure you!"

"But have you read his account of the case his friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes worked out for you, my dear?" Matilda asked, a sly look on her face.

Mary's face turned red in barely suppressed anger. "Of course I did, and I found nothing wrong with it! Everything was exactly as it had happened! What is it that you think I have missed?"

Matilda smiled a half-smile. "He betrayed his guilt very early on, dearest, when he was first talking about you. Or did you miss the place where he said that his experience of women extends over many nations and three separate continents?"

As the words left her lips, Watson felt a streak of horror run through him. Those words... how innocent his intentions had been when he had wrote them! But now it was plain how horribly they could be misconstrued!

"I meant nothing by that!" he cried. "I only intended to convey that I have met many women in my travels, and that Mary outshines them all in excellence!"

Miss Plumber laughed. "And, pray, how did you meet them?"

For the second time that evening his face went fiery at the thought of what she was implying. But even as a defense rose to his lips it faded away. She was wrong, certainly. He was not in the least guilty of the sin -- but he did not have the heart to defend himself. It was obvious that his tormentor would not listen.

"In quite an ordinary and harmless fashion," he murmured quietly, feeling that he must at least make some reply, even if it was inadequate. He rose to his feet, wishing that he could sink into the floor, feeling that he must leave and go anywhere, just as long as it was away from anyone he knew.

"Forgive me, but a fear I have stayed too long. I must go."

He didn't know if he could bear to look at Mary's face, so he didn't. Silence reigned as he left the room and made his way out of the house.

It was only when he reached the doorstep that he remembered that he couldn't go back to Baker Street.

_Very well, then, _he thought miserably. _I won't. _

When he reached the street, instead of turning towards home, he turned in the opposite direction.

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_Continued in Part 3...._


	3. Part 3

Mary Morstan did not wait for Mrs. Hudson to announce her. She flew in in a flurry and glanced around the room anxiously. Her face fell noticeably when she saw that the only occupant was a slightly bewildered (but nevertheless unperturbed) Sherlock Holmes, but she did not pause. She walked up to him and addressed him.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, tell me where John is. I must speak with him. Even if he will not see me, I must speak to him. Where is he?"

Holmes deliberately removed his pipe from his mouth without any hurry. "Last time I saw him, he said he was going to visit you."

"He did, about an hour ago. I would have come sooner, but it took so long to disengage myself from that horrid woman... oh, what have I done! If I had known she would be so cruel to him, I would not have let him come in!" She wrung her hands. "You mean you don't know where he is?"

"My dear Miss Morstan, if he is not with you, then I have no idea as to his whereabouts." He raised an eyebrow. "Pray, what exactly happened? And please sit down, Miss Morstan. You do not look capable of remaining standing any longer."

Mary seated herself on the opposite chair without comment, but she remained rigidly alert. "Miss Plumber, an acquaintance of mine -- oh, I wish I'd never met her! -- has, on her own invitation taken up residence in my house, supposedly to visit me. She had the... the audacity to... to claim that John was a.... that he.... oh, but Mr. Holmes, I know he is not like that!"

"Miss Morstan, if you would cease your affirmations of his innocence and actually tell me what _happened, _I might be able to help you," Holmes said, somewhat irritably.

"Oh yes, of course." Mary pulled off one glove fitfully, glanced at the fire, and then back at Holmes' face, dark and brooding in the flickering firelight. "She practically called him a philanderer to his face. I thought he would defend himself, but he didn't. He just said it wasn't true, and he left. And now I've come to apologize for his mistreatment, and he isn't here! I don't know what I..." She gasped suddenly, and raised her ungloved hand to her face, trying to stifle a sob. After a moment she continued, stumbling on through the sobs that insisted on bursting forth from her lips. "I don't know what I did, Mr. Holmes! I've never seen him like that! Is what she said true? Does he truly love me? Oh, I don't know, I don't know!"

"Calm yourself, Miss Morstan," Holmes said levelly. "It is not your fault, and a display of emotion will not help anything."

"Oh, but it is!" Mary cried, bursting into fresh sobs and burying her face in her hands. "He thinks that I doubt him -- oh, I wish I could tell him that it doesn't matter to me now if he did anything in the past! I know the kind of man he is now, and I love him! I only wish that I had told him! If I had told him, he wouldn't be missing now!"

"No." Holmes rose to his feet, and stood for a moment looking gravely into the fire. "It is my fault that he is gone."

Mary looked up at him questioningly, but he did not wait to meet her gaze. He had already walked determinedly into his room to get his overcoat.

"Where... where are you going?" Mary asked.

"To find him!" came the answer from the depths of Holmes's bedroom. He appeared a moment later, stuffing an arm through a coat sleeve.

"Miss Morstan, I would advise you to return to your home, as it may be a while before I recover him."

Mary rose. "No, Mr. Holmes. I'm coming with you."

He paused and stared at her. "You can't. Where I'm going -- where he probably went -- is too dangerous for a woman."

She tossed her head. "I don't care. I love him, and I'm going to help you find him. You can't get rid of me so easily, Mr. Holmes."

He sighed. "Very well. But you do so at your own risk."

"I am well aware of that," she replied in a businesslike tone, her former hysteria forgotten. "We had better leave quickly."

"Of course." He opened the door for her, and the two of them descended the steps out into the dark and rainy streets.

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_To be concluded in Part 4..._


	4. Part 4

**The last and longest chapter! Enjoy!**

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The night was too dark, too foggy, too cold. But it was more than just a combination of these elements that made the night so formidable -- it was the air, the feeling one got when one breathed a little too deeply, something in the smell, in the touch of tiny drops of moisture on one's face. It was the strange, ghostly quality to the night that made every sound seem muffled, and made a man feel alone in a city as big as London.

There were many downsides to coupling a dangerous profession with an all-too-apt imagination. He had known of too many honorable, decent men, who had on nights like this had decided to leave the world of their own volition. Men who, on the outside, had perfectly happy lives -- degenerated into mere bodies that turned up in the Thames, or in dark alleys, or in the upper rooms of abandoned houses.

_Dear God, what have I done_, he thought for the dozenth time... or the hundredth? He didn't know. That was another thing about the night -- one couldn't tell how long it had been. The moments bled into each other so as to become indistinguishable. They might have been doing this for an eternity, and he would have been unaware of it.

Mary sat with her face pressed to the glass, her eyes darting back and forth, examining every street and alley, lingering on each passerby that even remotely fit the height and weight descriptions. Everyone was bundled up, so it was often impossible to see faces. They could have passed him already without knowing.

But he, Sherlock Holmes, had found a plausible theory, an explanation, and he was not about to let it go. For both their sakes he put more confidence into it than he felt. It had to be the answer... had to be.

If only Watson had not done something utterly foolish...

"Don't you think he might be down that way?" Mary asked, interrupting his dark reflections. She gestured out the window.

He shook his head. "No, not there. I know where he's gone."

She blinked at him. "You do? Where?"

"Vaguely," he said with a wave of his hand. "I know at least where he's most likely to go, and we haven't reached it yet."

"Where?" she insisted.

He waited a moment before answering. "Down by the river."

"Down by the..." she repeated, before stopping and staring at him with a frightened expression. "Oh Mr. Holmes, you don't think he would..."

So she had only now come upon the possibility that he had been entertaining ever since she had arrived and told him that his Boswell was missing. He didn't answer her question. He just looked at her. She fell into silence, and her head sank back against the back of the seat.

"Oh please, God," she murmured. "Not that."

They rattled on in relative silence. After a few more blocks, Holmes ordered the cab to stop. He got out, and Mary made motions to follow him, but he raised his hand.

"Miss Morstan, I cannot allow you to accompany me through this part of town at night. You must wait here."

She glared at him. "Mr. Holmes, I told you that you would not be able to get rid of me. I am coming. I know that I am safe enough with you." She began to descend to the street again.

"But my dear lady, we have no guarantees of what his condition will be..." He stopped, realizing the foolishness of uttering that last statement.

"When we find his body?" Mary asked bitterly. "Is that what you mean?"

He had no answer.

"I don't care what condition he's in, Mr. Holmes. I am coming. I have done this to him, and I will be there when you find him. We will find him."

This time when she exited the cab he did not stop her.

"Follow me closely," he said. She nodded.

They made their way through the darkened alleys, Holmes leading them on at a brisk pace, and Mary somehow managing to keep up with his long stride. They could hear the river somewhere nearby, but for the moment it was hidden by warehouses and other buildings.

After about twenty minutes of zigzagging, Mary broke the silence.

"Do you still think he is somewhere near here, Mr. Holmes?"

He nodded. "The other two times he has been in a similar mood, he has always ended up here.

"You've had to go looking for him before?"

"No... the mud on his boots."

"Ah."

They continued on, deeper and deeper into the maze of alleys, which became increasingly difficult to navigate as the fog grew thicker. Twice they heard noises they could not identify, and they would both stop and stand tensed, listening. Only after the noises had died away did they continue on. Once a street urchin brushed past them with a murmured, "Sorry, gov'." Still nothing.

And then, after they had been going for nearly three quarters of an hour, the corner of a building became visible through the mist. And leaning against the wall with his back towards them, a man.

Holmes recognized the coat and hat immediately. A few seconds later, he heard a quick intake of breath from his companion, followed by a pair of pale hands that latched tightly onto his arms. He looked down to see her looking up at him questioningly, her face white, her lips pressed nervously together.

He found himself surprised at his lack of irritation towards her, in that moment. Ordinarily he would have done his best to extricate himself from her grasp, but now... now they shared the same thought, almost the same emotion, and he thought that in her shoes, he would not have acted any differently.

He nodded firmly to her, and then raised his face to the figure slumped dejectedly against the bricks, still unaware of their presence.

"Watson."

No response.

"Watson, it's too late for you to be in this part of town. You ought to return to Baker Street."

The figure did not turn around, but a miserable echo of his voice, rough-edged and bitter, came to them through the swirling shreds of fog.

"You came looking for me." His shoes scraped in the gravel and he shifted, but he did not turn around. "I can't see why."

Mary's grip on his arm shifted fitfully. Holmes sighed.

"My dear fellow, this is no time for -- "

"Can't you see that you were right in what you said?" Watson interrupted irritably. "Why shouldn't I be here? And why should you, of all people, come to find me, hmm? Why?"

"_We _came to find you because no one in his right mind should be down here alone."

"We?" This time the question was neither sarcastic nor rhetorical, but painfully open, almost frightened. He turned, almost spasmodically, and stopped, stupefied.

"Mary..." Ever so slightly, he moved backwards, pressing himself into the wall as if he wished to melt into it.

Mary didn't care. She let go of Holmes's arm and walked toward her fiancé, her hands extended.

"John, please come back with us. I've been so worried about you, after the things that woman said -- curse the day I met her, that she would say such horrible, horrible things about you, to your very face!" She stepped close to him, running her hands along the collar of his coat, letting them linger there tenderly.

"I thought you would think me a fiend," he said. "I should never have written something so... so callous, so stupid."

She looked up into his face. "I don't," she said. "And I don't think that you're some sort of god, either. I see you as the man you are, and I love you, John. Please come back with us. Please, for my sake."

Watson looked back at her, his eyes filled with love, but the love did not banish the bitter remorse, as she had hoped... as they had both been hoping, Holmes supposed with a bit of an irritated shock, wondering how long he had been secretly entertaining romantic notions without his permission.

Watson smiled at her ruefully, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "And I... I love you, dear Mary, devotedly -- if you will still have me." He raised his eyes to look into those of his fellow-lodger. "But I'm still wondering how on earth you convinced Mr. Sherlock Holmes to accompany you."

Mary looked back at Holmes, those blue eyes once again questioning, with the air of a child innocently wishing to know. "He..." And she didn't have an answer.

They were both looking at him now. Or rather, Watson was almost looking at him. But not quite. Somehow his eyes were averted, as if his gaze made it most of the way and then at the last moment veered off to the side.

"Didn't he tell you what I did?"

This had to end. Holmes stepped forward, his boot sounding on the cobblestone with an air of authority, like the striking of a judge's gavel. "Enough, Watson," he said loudly, not caring who heard. Then softer, "Enough. You must come home, my dear fellow, and I'd rather not drag you there."

"But the case, Holmes! The case that I ruined!"

"I unsay all that I said about the case. Your fiancée obviously does not care about it, and neither do I."

"Holmes…"

He stepped up to Watson and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I was wrong," he said quietly. "I should not have been so hard about it."

In a moment of mutual vulnerability their eyes met, and they understood each other, and that all was forgiven. But almost before it was begun Holmes cut it off with a sudden appearance of a good-humored smile, not quite brave enough to let it the moment linger.

"And now, let us make a jolly threesome and return to Baker Street, shall we? I don't believe I've ever told you about the case of the sunburned plumber that I solved before your time, and it has points that might interest Miss Morstan."

A quick, half-unbelieving smile flashed over Watson's face.

"But Holmes, we can't keep her out so late…"

Mary gave the nearest cousin to a snort that a polite lady could give. "I don't care. I'm already out horribly late, and if I remember correctly, I've been so before in the company of you gentlemen. I'm sure Miss Plumber won't mind."

"But…"

"John, I don't care."

Somehow, Holmes got the sense that she didn't just mean about keeping her out late.

And that was the end of the matter.

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_The end!_


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